


In Service

by Whisper91



Series: Downtime [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Cuddles, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Smut, Hand Feeding, M/M, Orgasm Control, Sub Clint Barton, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This dynamic of theirs extends far beyond what goes on inside the bedroom. It's not all about paddles and handcuffs, discipline and control, punishment and rewards. In fact, at the end of the day, it all boils down to one basic principle: Phil Coulson likes to take care of his boy.</p><p> </p><p>(Because readers requested Phil hand-feeding his sub, and things escalated from there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Service

 

 

 

In a lot of ways, these calmer evenings actually require more preparation and overall emotional control than a lot of their heavier domestic scenes.

It’s almost second nature now, the way that things progress when they’re both being driven by need and hunger and arousal, slipping smoothly into roles that provide the perfect counterbalance for one another. Phil can easily switch gears to accommodate for his sub’s emotional needs – to provide a gentle hand when Clint craves tenderness, a teasing one when he’s playful, a punishing one when he’s mischievous and silently begging for harder domination.

But the tamer evenings? Those are harder to anticipate. Mostly because the urge to cuddle and soothe and _pamper_ his sub tends to be a spur-of-the-moment thing.

Tonight is no exception.

Phil’s been chopping vegetables to add to his pasta sauce, the frying pan providing a hissing audio accompaniment that drowns out the lyrics of the jazz song playing over the ipod speakers on the far side of the marble island. Clint sets down the block of cheese he’s been grating, leaning across to tap the volume up a few notches, and sways along with the lively beat as he straightens up again. Phil’s knife pauses, still impaled on half a pepper, as he watches the younger man. The heat from the stove has left the faintest hint of pink in Clint’s cheeks, and in the dimmed mood-lighting of the kitchen (because yes, Phil’s a romantic bastard) he looks _breathtakingly_ gorgeous.

Clint’s eyes flicker up to look at him suddenly, and he pauses in his ministrations, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, slow and casual.

“What?”

Phil knows he’s smiling. Knows it probably makes him look like an old sap. But there’s only Clint here to see it, so it doesn’t matter.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, but a familiar bloom of warmth is already swelling high in his chest, a pulse of possessive desire that summons tempting images to the forefront of his mind. He keeps their eyes locked and nods to indicate the plate of grated cheese. “Pass me that, would you?”

Clint obliges, leaning across the countertop to hand it to him, and Phil doesn’t say anything else until he’s set the plate to one side and returned his attention to the vegetables.

“Good boy.”

They’ve been together long enough now that miscommunication is a rare thing indeed, and there’s a pause as the words register for what they are. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil sees the brief hesitation in Clint’s movements as he straightens up again, the archer’s gaze flickering up to meet his own, quietly assessing. Phil knows he hasn’t given his partner much to go on – not yet, anyway. But he won’t press the matter further, not until Clint’s shown that he’s willing to play tonight.

After a moment, the archer’s lips curl up into a wider smile and he ducks his head, his whole countenance changing. And Phil knows that the gears are shifting in his partner’s head, certain memories and instincts being compartmentalised to allow him to slide into this calmer, less cocky persona. The pink flush in his cheeks deepens a little as he glances back towards Phil again.

“Thank you, sir.”

And there it is. The unspoken _‘Green’_ that Phil was hoping for. He bites back another smile and resumes chopping with skilled efficiency, dicing the pepper and tomatoes quickly before scraping them into the frying pan to join the onions.

“Come and stir these for me,” he instructs, his tone a careful balance between a request and an order – he doesn’t want Clint to drop, not yet, and he needs to make sure that it’s a smooth, gentle descent so that his sub’s suitably relaxed for what he has planned.

Clint comes around the island to stand beside him, still smiling, moving pliantly when Phil carefully settles his hands on the archer’s hips and manoeuvres him to stand in front of the stove.

“That’s good,” Phil praises after a moment, his cheek pressed against the side of Clint’s head as he watches him stir, his hands still resting on the man’s waist. He moves them slowly, sliding them up higher until his arms are wrapped around Clint properly, embracing him from behind.

Clint leans back against him, still stirring the vegetables dutifully. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” he asks, curious and polite, and Phil knows he’s testing the waters, fishing for clues that’ll help him figure out which direction Phil intends to take things.

“No, you’re fine,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against the man’s hair. “You’re already being so good for me.” He lets the silence hang between them for another stretch, until the vegetables are almost done, before squeezing his arms around the man’s midriff a little tighter. “I’m going to take care of you tonight, Clint.”

“You always take care of me,” the archer insists, but his voice has dropped a few decibels and his head’s lolling back against Phil’s shoulder a little.

“Not like this.” Phil slides a hand beneath the younger man’s t-shirt to stroke the smooth skin of his abdomen. “How would you feel about kneeling at the table tonight?”

Clint sucks in a sharp breath before nodding quickly, and something in Phil’s chest loosens at the immediate consent. He kisses the shell of the archer’s ear, holding him tighter still.

“We’ll watch a movie afterwards,” he continued. “And I’d like to give you a bath before we go to bed, if that’s alright?”

The archer nods again. “Yes, sir,” he manages, his voice a little husky. “Please. I’d like that.”

Phil smiles, kisses his hair again, then steps to one side and takes the cooking utensil from Clint’s loose grip. “Go change into something more comfortable for kneeling in,” he instructs, because he knows from previous scenes that jeans aren’t ideal for prolonged sessions. “Take your time – I’ll finish up dinner.”

Not that there’s much left to do, except tumble the cooked vegetables into the pan of sauce that’s been simmering on a low heat and dump in the cheese. By the time Clint re-emerges from the hallway to the bedroom, wearing soft cotton yoga pants and one of Phil’s old Star Wars t-shirts (the one with the hole in the sleeve and the graphic design so faded by years of wearing and washing that it’s almost impossible to make out), Phil’s draining the pasta over the sink, sending up clouds of steam as boiling water strikes cold metal.

“There’s my boy,” he says warmly, tipping the pasta into the saucepan and mixing it all together briskly. “You wanna grab a cushion, sweetheart? I’ll be right with you.”

Clint flashes him an eager grin that’s somehow all bright eyes and dimples, making him look irrefutably younger than twenty-eight. The baggy clothing only adds to the picture, and it’s a struggle not to abandon dinner temporarily so that he can go and kiss his sub breathless.

But they’re taking things slow this evening, and Phil is renowned throughout the junior ranks at S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters for his restraint and stoicism, so he manages to supress the urge long enough to arrange what they’ll need on a tray; he plates up their dinner and fills two tall glasses with water before joining the younger man at the dining table. Clint has already set the cushion down to the left of the chair at the head of the table (their early and somewhat messy attempts at this have allowed him to identify which side works better for both of them), but he’s not kneeling yet, he’s standing a couple of paces away at a military rest, feet shoulder-width apart and one hand clasping the opposite wrist behind his back.

“That’s perfect,” Phil says approvingly, and watches as Clint’s eyelids droop a little as he inhales deeply, the praise allowing him to sink an increment deeper into his usual headspace.

He arranges the glasses and dishes and cutlery with due care, because there’s a pattern to the way they do this sort of thing and the more familiar his motions, the more relaxed Clint will become under his care. It doesn’t take more than a minute or so, and soon enough he’s taking a seat and unfolding one of the cloth napkins (they only ever seem to use them during scenes like this) and draping it carefully over his lap. Then he extends a hand towards Clint invitingly, his smile warm and fond.

“Come and kneel for me, kiddo.”

Clint’s cheeks flush further at the term of endearment, but there’s no hesitation in the way he moves as he closes the distance between them and sinks gracefully to his knees on the cushions, hands resting palm-downwards on his thighs.

Phil cards gentle fingers through his hair. “Make yourself comfortable. You don’t have to kneel in any particular way, as long as you keep your hands down, alright?”

The archer nods, throat moving as he swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Giving into temptation, Phil leans sideways and dips down to steal a firm, lingering kiss, his hand sliding around to grip the side of Clint’s neck as he licks his way into the archer’s mouth. Clint makes a muffled sound of surprise against his lips, but surges up into the kiss a split second later with his usual enthusiasm. Pulling back after a minute or two, he smiles at the dazed look on his sub’s face, brushing his lips against Clint’s forehead on his way up as he straightens in his seat, keeping his left hand on the side of Clint’s neck.

After a moment, the archer blinks and shifts his gaze upwards with a lazy roll of his eyes to grin crookedly at him. “Dinner’s getting cold, sir.”

Phil breathes a soft laugh and shakes his head, threading the fingers of his left hand through Clint’s hair briefly as he carefully spears a piece of pasta and a slice of mushroom on the end of a fork. He glances back down at Clint, who’s gone still again and is watching him avidly, and brings the fork to his own lips to blow on it gently. Then he slowly lowers the fork to Clint’s mouth, giving the archer time to pull away if he decides he wants to backtrack, keeping a steadying hand on his sub’s neck so that Clint has something to anchor himself to.

The younger man holds his gaze unwaveringly, perfect boy that he is, and opens his mouth to accept to proffered forkful, sealing his lips around the metal prongs so that Phil can slide the fork out cleanly. It’s as captivating to watch as Phil remembers it, mesmerised by the way Clint’s eyelids flutter as he savours the different tastes, jaw working as he chews slowly. His partner had explained to him long ago, curled up together on the couch after one such session and still sated from his recent orgasm, that the flavours of the food were somehow enhanced by the experience. Although whether it was as a result of his altered headspace or simply because he wasn’t the one holding the fork and deciding what went on it, who could say?

Phil takes a bite himself, only glancing away from Clint long enough to make sure he doesn’t end up with sauce down the front of his shirt. It’s delicious, even if he does say so himself.

He smiles at Clint, stroking his thumb where it rests against the man’s pulse.  “Ready for another bite?”

Clint’s tongue passes over his bottom lip, chasing the taste of the sauce, and he leans further into Phil’s touch as he nods again. “Yes, sir.”

It’s fairly easy to establish a steady rhythm after the first few bites, so that Phil’s taken a mouthful for himself and already has the next bite ready on the tip of the fork by the time Clint’s finished chewing. They’re not in any particular rush – his sub looks comfortable, and Phil could watch Clint like this all day if it were feasible – but he knows the regularity of the forkfuls prevents Clint from dropping out of this particular high. His partner’s never enjoyed long pauses.

Soon enough, the plate’s two-thirds empty, and Phil decides to switch things up a bit. There’s a basket of sliced bread in the centre of the table that Clint had prepared before moving on to the cheese, and Phil is grateful for it, because however much he enjoys feeding Clint using utensils (except chopsticks; that had just been a hilariously messy mistake), feeding him by hand is far more intimate, and he knows from previous scenes that his sub feels the same way.

He breaks off a small corner of a thick slice and uses it to mop up some of the excess sauce from his plate, before bringing it to Clint’s lips. The archer’s gaze zeroes in on it immediately, his eyes flickering up to meet Phil’s again as a subspace-groggy smile tugs at his lips. He opens his mouth, leaning forwards a little in his eagerness to accept the morsel, wrapping his lips around Phil’s thumb and forefinger and sucking the sauce from the digits.

Phil smiles at the excessive use of tongue, arching an eyebrow at the cheeky glint in the younger man’s eyes. “Behave,” he warns, but it’s playful.

Clint pulls back to chew on the chunk of bread, looking smugly satisfied with himself, but rather than scolding him (because that’s not where he wants things to go, not tonight, not unless that’s what Clint really needs), he just curls his fingers into the archer’s hair and tugs on it gently as he carefully breaks off another chunk of bread to repeat the process. There’s less tongue this time, but Clint still sucks Phil’s digits into his mouth to clean off the sauce. Phil can’t find it in his heart to rebuke him for it. It looks as amazing as it feels.

After they’ve finished two slices of bread between them, Phil reaches for one of the glasses and the second cloth napkin, still folded in a neat square. He holds the fabric in his left hand and uses it to cup Clint’s chin, so that it doubles up as both a gentle means of support and a suitable way to catch any drops that might spill.

He brings the rim of the glass to Clint’s lips, tilting it just enough that his partner can take slow, careful sips. Phil’s eyes are trained on the glass, on the subtle movement of Clint’s lips, but the archer’s gaze is fixed on him the whole while. Phil can feel it burning into him, the intensity of it gratifying. It means Clint’s slipped far enough that he’s passed through _‘cosy’_ and careened straight into _‘aroused’_.

“Enough?” Phil asks, once the glass is half empty, and at Clint’s slight nod he withdraws and sets both glass and napkin aside.

He’s feeling comfortably full now himself, and takes a moment to card his fingers through Clint’s hair, smiling as the younger man sags a little beneath his touch.

“You want more pasta?” he offers after a beat. “Bread?”

Clint leans forward a little to rest his cheek against Phil’s thigh and grins up at him hopefully. “Dessert?”

Phil hums, rubbing a thumb over the archer’s soft lips, mentally cataloguing what they have in the cupboards. “There’s still some pie left in the fridge. And the rest of that _Ben &Jerry’s_ tub from Saturday night.” Both will probably prove to be messy hand-feeding foods, but Phil’s willing to give anything a bash. Besides, sometimes a little mess can be fun. “What are you in the mood for?”

The archer’s grin turns seductive, that cheeky glint returning to his eyes, and he slides a hand unsubtly up Phil’s leg from ankle to knee. “Actually, sir, I had a different kind of dessert in mind.”

Arousal pulses deep in Phil’s gut, even as he lightly flicks the back of Clint’s hand, a wordless reprimand. Clint obediently lowers it back to rest on his thigh again, but his grin doesn’t waver, and Phil can’t help but return it fondly. This isn’t where he’d intended the evening to go – it was supposed to be about Clint’s pleasure tonight rather than his own. But if this is want Clint wants, who is he to deny his sub the opportunity? He knows his partner enjoys servicing him this way. And Phil’s pretty fond of it himself.

“Is that so?” he queries, maintaining a casual air, because Clint likes it when he plays hard to get.

“Please, sir?” his sub asks, a hint of a whine in his tone, tilting his head to one side and giving Phil a doe-eyed look that almost seems authentic. Good thing Phil knows him better than that.

He tugs at Clint’s hair again, gentle and teasing. “Please what, Clint?”

“Please let me suck you,” the archer elaborates, shifting on his knees, and from this angle Phil can already see the bulge in the front of his yoga pants. “Please? I’ve been good, haven’t I, sir?”

Phil can’t resist that wheedling tone of voice, not when the dynamic’s softened like this, comfortable and casual and lacking the stricter limits they sometimes erect during harder play. He smiles, all fondness and warmth, and pushes his chair back a little from the table so that he can turn it sideways to face Clint.

“You _have_ been exceptionally good for me this evening,” he acknowledges, his tone still thoughtful. “Perhaps you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

Clint’s hands slip from their resting place on his own thighs, but stay low to the floor, grasping Phil’s shins lightly. “Is that a yes, sir?”

“That’s a yes,” Phil confirms, and makes a show of slowly unzipping his fly and taking himself out. “And you can use your hands, if you like.”

The archer’s palms slide upwards again to rest on his knees as he leans in, eyeing Phil’s cock hungrily. The senior agent is semi-hard already, but a few sure strokes from Clint’s talented fingers and he’s fully erect, a delicious sort of heat building in his loins. He slides a hand into Clint’s hair again as his sub drags his tongue up the length of him, then warm lips are closing over his head, heat encompassing him as the archer sucks wetly on the tip. Phil exhales slowly, steadying himself.

Clint’s sinfully good at this, and Phil's already painfully hard, but he wants it to last. He wants to savour ever delicious slide of that skilful tongue and watch as Clint’s ministrations become more and more desperate as his own arousal grows. His boy looks gorgeous like this, mouth open wide around the girth of him, eyes locked with Phil’s as he bobs his head slowly, one hand stroking beneath the seal of his lips.

Phil’s breathing is a little uneven after only half a minute, and he can tell his reaction is affecting Clint, the sub making a choked, needy noise around the flesh in his mouth as he shifts on his knees a little. Phil grins, rubbing his fingertips lightly over Clint’s scalp.

“You like that, baby?” he asks, his voice rough and low, thickened with arousal. “Mm. You love sucking my cock, don’t you? You’re so hard already.” He pushes his sock-clad foot against the bulge in Clint’s pants, and the boy whimpers around him and sucks harder, startling a choked-off moan from Phil’s throat. “Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart. God, you’re so good at this. So good for me.”

He keeps stroking the hardening bulge with his foot, exerting just enough pressure to stimulate without actually giving Clint what he wants. The sub’s still bobbing his head and stroking Phil’s cock with due skill, but his mouth’s wetter now, looser, moans thrumming through his throat every so often and vibrating up into that pleasure-filled core in Phil’s lower belly. The archer’s hips are twitching, aborted movements to try and push back against the senior agent’s foot, and it’s perhaps one of the hottest things Phil’s seen in a while – his sub, flushed and whimpering and desperate, blowing Phil while he grinds against him eagerly.

His hand slides to the back of Clint’s head, guiding him further down so that Phil’s cock slides in deeper and hits the back of his throat wetly. He hunches forwards a little, muscles tightening as the heat in his belly skyrockets.

“Clint,” he warns breathlessly, holding the boy’s head with both hands. “Baby, I’m gonna come.”

The archer’s gaze flickers up to him again, eyes watering and pupils blown, and he renews the vigour of his sucking with a high, keening hum. His consent might as well be written in red ink and counter-signed.

Phil grunts and guides Clint’s head up and down in a few rapid, sloppy strokes, and then he’s coming hard, hips bucking, spilling into his partner’s mouth as he chokes out Clint’s name.

The archer swallows around him and sucks for a few more strokes, nostrils flaring as he draws in deep breaths to compensate for the brief period of oxygen deprivation. Phil watches him through heavy-lidded eyes as he slowly descends from his post-orgasmic high, the fingers of one hand still playing in Clint’s hair. Belatedly he recalls where his foot’s currently resting, and immediately resumes stroking and grinding it against his sub’s hard-on. Clint’s eyelids shutter, Phil’s softening member slipping from his mouth as he gasps wetly, hands clutching tightly onto his Dom’s thighs.

“Mm, good boy,” Phil growls, his voice hoarse from his recent climax. “That’s it. You’re close, aren’t you, baby? You did so good, you deserve a reward.”

He strokes a little harder, watches with a dark, predatory smile as Clint bucks and gasps out a needy, breathless,  “Fuck, sir, _please!”_

Phil cups Clint’s face in both hands, keeping his foot sliding at an even pace as he locks eyes with the flushed boy. “Are you going to come for me, sweetheart? Come inside your pants for me like a good boy?”

Clint chokes out a moan and tries to drop his head again, but Phil’s hands are there to keep it steady, ensuring that their eyes remain locked. He rubs a little harder, a little more insistently.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “Come on, that’s it. Let me see it, baby; let me see you come.”

The archer seizes up, clutching onto Phil’s thighs with a death-grip, but then his hips are shuddering and jerking in shallow, desperate thrusts and his mouth falls open in a loud, startled cry as he comes hard, gaze going vacant for a moment as he hits the peak of his climax. Then he’s left gasping in the wake of it, looking flushed and shaky and _wrecked_ , and Phil leans down to press chaste, tender kisses to his parted lips and ghost them over his sweaty face.

“Good boy,” he whispers, as Clint clings to him and trembles. Phil’s still supporting the archer’s head gently in both hands. “You did _so_ well, Clint. God, you’re perfect.”

One of Clint’s hands comes up to grip his wrist as he turns his cheek into the touch, panting wetly against Phil’s palm. “Thank you,” he manages between shaky breaths. “Thank you, sir. I...that was…” He gives a breathy, slightly hysterical laugh. “Fuck, that was awesome.”

Phil smiles and kisses his forehead. “I’m glad it met with your approval.” He leans back to assess the younger man carefully, stroking the backs of his fingers against one flushed cheek. “You need to lie down for a bit?”

Clint shakes his head, then pauses, and after a moment he inclines it slowly. “Yeah. Probably. Think I’m gonna crash pretty hard after this.”

“Couch or bed?” Phil offers, letting Clint rest his cheek against his knee for a moment, the younger man’s arms looping around his lower legs in a manner that suggests he’s probably fighting the urge to cling.

“Couch?” Clint murmurs hopefully. “You said we could watch a movie…”

“I did,” the senior agent agrees, a smile in his voice. “And we will. But there’s a TV in the bedroom too, kiddo.”

The archer mumbles something unintelligible against his knee, reaffirming Phil’s suspicions about just how fast his boy’s dropping after his sudden ascent into a deeper level of subspace. Taking matters into his own hands, he loops his arms beneath Clint’s and stands, hauling the younger man to his feet along with him. Thankfully the archer is still capable of walking, albeit with a sleepy sort of clumsiness that Phil finds incredibly endearing.

He steers his sub down the hallway and into their bedroom, sitting Clint on the edge of the bed and stripping him out of his shirt and pants and soiled boxers, cleaning him up with the material before coaxing the archer into a clean pair (much to Clint’s disgruntlement). But soon enough they’re curled up in bed together, Clint burrowing into his chest while Phil wraps his arms around him and basks in the pleasant, possessive after-glow that accompanies the satisfaction of providing for his sub.

Phil presses lazy kisses to Clint’s brow and hair, rubbing his back slowly as the younger man drifts down from his high at a more sedate pace. It’s probably a good ten minutes before the archer shifts, lifting his head to peer up at him with a sleepy, sated smile.

“I never said,” he murmurs, blinking slowly, drunkenly. “Thanks for dinner, sir. It was great.”

Phil’s smile is soft and full of affection. “Better than dessert?”

“Not quite.” Clint’s smile curls up into a lazy grin. “But you know me, sir – I’ve always had a sweet tooth.” He snuggles down against Phil a little more. “Speaking of dessert, were you being serious about that pie?”

Phil chuckles. “Yes, I was being serious about the pie.”

“Awesome. Can we have pie? Can that be a thing?”

“Right now?”

Clint pauses, thinking. “Well, no,” he concedes eventually. “Not _now_ , now. Gonna have to wait at least half an hour until I can walk properly again.”

“I can always order room service,” Phil suggest casually.

“Hn-nn.” Clint grips onto his shirt more stubbornly. “You’re warm. S’fine, the pie can wait. Wake me in fifteen minutes, ‘kay?”

Phil’s lips twitch. “Bossy.”

Clint grins up at him, eyes still closed. “You love me for it, sir.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-daa! For the readers who requested hand-feeding, and to raining, who wanted a story from Phil's perspective. The two seemed to merge together quite nicely.
> 
> Let me know if you have any other kinks requests, dear readers!


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